


i open to you like a flowering wound

by natehsewell



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/F, Pining, Rating May Change, Tenderness, Yearning, corsets, soft best friends (that are also gay), the full wlw experience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28186584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natehsewell/pseuds/natehsewell
Summary: She’s lovely, here. The white of the shift is almost sheer, almost, in the melty golden light. Her warm brown skin flawless and visibly soft. The curving lines of her both hidden and more on display than ever, and Ava is not looking, she is not some— and she has no reason to look, of course. But her friend is lovely, and that is undeniable.--Or, before a ball, Ava assists Nat in getting dressed.
Relationships: Ava du Mortain/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	i open to you like a flowering wound

**Author's Note:**

> I just NEEDED to see Ava lace up Nat's corset at least once, and so this happened. there's going to be a part two, probably, and the rating might jump up so... ahem. but until then, have Tender Yearning Best Friends that are also definitely gay. the full wlw experience.
> 
> title from “after the earthquake,” by erica jong.

The apartment their employers have provided is excessive in its opulence. Weighted in fine wallpaper and heavy furniture and gold threads, Ava would describe it as unnecessary, at best. Their stay in Bath will be blissfully short, and then to Austria, where rumors have been caught of a vampire overindulging in a hospitality of his own creation. 

Until then, a ball. Of sorts. Rather more it is a protective measure against the possibility of an irate siren, one that had implied threats against this human man and his family. And thus, their presence was requested in such a manner that it was not a request at all, but rather an order.

Regardless, Nat seems abuzz with some hidden delight Ava cannot put a name to. This is hardly an event meant to be savored or enjoyed. Already, she wishes it were good and done with. Better to cancel the whole affair than risk whatever it may be that this human man is risking.

But, there are orders, and so Ava adjusts the set of her vest, already prepared to see the evening through in shades of black and ivory and red. Her evening coat laid over the back of a cushioned seat, her boots beside it. 

“Ava, could you come in here for a moment?” Nat hums from the other room, neither soft nor loud, and Ava responds in kind. With one quick step, push, she’s crossed the threshold of the living area into the adjourned bedroom. Lightfooted on the wood flooring, she makes no sound until she must shoulder open the creaking, heavy door. 

A soft, “Yes?” has already escaped her mouth when her gaze finds Nat, turned away from her to face the bed, wreathed in only a light shift and drawers.

_It is—_

After so many years, it is not a sight unfamiliar to her. Undress is, to her, simply a state of being, and to live in such proximity with another for so long, it is not— well, it is not unexpected. Not even strange. This is not the first time she has laid eyes on her _bare shoulders_ of all things, nor is it the first time Nat has seen her in such a state. And so she does not look askance, or blush, or shy away—the way she might have, once, long ago. She simply clears her throat and waits. 

If her spine stiffens for a moment, if there is the slightest skip of her heart— well, that is no matter at all. She is far too old for such things now.

Nat smiles at her, lifting her head from whatever held her interest before. There is a gentle crinkling at the corner of her eyes, and it is a warming sight, an easing one. Ava exhales slowly, and takes another step inside.

“Would you mind assisting me with this?” She gestures, and Ava finally focuses away from the fine line of her collarbone, her arching shoulders, to the bed. 

A heavy evening gown of deep, deep green, laced with thread of gold and opal, ruched and adorned in lace and beads and ruffles. It is lovely, and finely crafted, and Ava isn’t surprised—she’ll allow Nat’s small vice for finery and loveliness and rather needless expenses to go unstated, when she has been kind enough to bend for so many of Ava’s minor faults.

Beside the dress, layers of undergarments. The hoop skirt to the side. Stockings, and their accompanying ribbons. The corset, unlaced and held between Nat’s quiet hands.

“Of course.” Ava nods without hesitation, despite the slight lurch of her heart in her chest. Irregular, perhaps, but nothing to draw attention to. Even here, Nat is more a comfort than anything, and she moves in her presence with safety, even with the insignificant betrayals of her body. 

(She’s lovely, here. The white of the shift is almost sheer, _almost_ , in the melty golden light. Her warm brown skin flawless and visibly soft. The curving lines of her both hidden and more on display than ever, and Ava is not _looking_ , she is not some— and she has no reason to look, of course. But her friend is lovely, and that is undeniable.)

Nat says nothing, simply smiling her appreciation and taking to the nearby vanity. Striding across the room, Ava comes to meet with her before the mirror, the outstretch of the seat. 

“This first?” Ava murmurs, taking the garment from her, whalebone and pale silk. Simple, understated, but finely made. 

“Yes, please.” Nat nods, turning around so that she faces the mirror, away from Ava.

Her hair has grown so long, and so heavy, falling in waves of deep, deep brown. Long enough that the curling ends almost brush the bottom of her back. The same color as rich soil after a rainstorm, all things comforting in their darkness. She takes her time picking it up, piling atop her head, and it draws attention to the elegant arch of her neck.

Ava looks away quickly, turning her attention to her work. Fitting the corset so that it sits correct, she meets Nat’s gaze in the mirror to ensure comfort, correctness.

Nat offers her a soft smile and a nod, and Ava continues. She does not allow her eyes to stray to the slight expanse of tawny skin bare to her now. The top of her shoulders or the calves or anything, anything at all but the laces she weaves between her fingers.

“Ready?” Ava warns, just a moment before drawing the laces taut. Nat stiffens, but sways only a little, steadying herself for the next pull, the ever-tightening of the corset.

Ava does not look up, but she can feel the weight of a gaze in the mirror all the same. She feels it most on her cheeks, a tingling that spreads downward, along her neck. The subtle sensation of being watched is a familiar one, but for once it is not one she will discourage. It is not one she shifts under or meets with unflinching regard. She allows herself to be looked at without suspicion digging in the back of her mind.

The next few minutes pass without either woman speaking. The silence is only broken by the quiet groan of whalebone, stretching itself around the bend of a body, and the sound of laces working and crossing together. Ava tugs lightly, carefully, taking the moment to check for discomfort, and then continues.

This is not a particular task she enjoys for herself, the fashions of each decade demanding—to her—time she simply does not have to partake in. But neither is it a chore, not when it’s Nat she’s assisting. After a moment, she’s finished, one last finishing tug before she binds the laces together in a bow.

“There.” Ava says, flicking her eyes up to find herself still watched. It is strange, to look at herself being looked at—the heavy indent of her brow, concentrated and sharp. The ease of her mouth. The way Nat pauses for a moment, her eyes roaming over— over what? Details? 

What a silly thing, when they spend so much time together—as they have, for decades. 

Silence, then Nat exhales, smiling softly once again.

“Thank you, Ava.” She drops her hair, letting it fall once more in cascading waves of earthy brown. 

Stockings next, then. Nat draws in a slight breath, then settles onto the cushioned stool, back straight and head held elegantly. As elegant as she always is. Ava pauses for a moment, waiting for her to say more—she seems rather…

Quiet, tonight.

It is not strange, for long stretches of silence to pass between them. It is one of the things Ava appreciates most; the effortless quiet they can sit in. Hours, even days, passed without a word, but not in anger or malice or anything beyond the simple comfort of being beside another person. 

She has never met another being she was content to simply exist beside. It is a delightful thing, even if she has never said as much. Will likely never say as much.

But tonight, it feels strange. Like there are words settled in both of them, waiting to be spared, and yet— nothing.

But perhaps it is nothing. At least, nothing for Nat. She goes to the bed, taking the silk stockings and ribbons—also green, and long in her tapered fingers—in hand, and returns to Nat’s side as quickly as she left it.

Ava is unaccustomed to kneeling. Certainly kneeling for others. She did, once, when absolutely necessary, but that was lifetimes ago.

She goes to her knees effortlessly. But she does not look up. Not yet.

Ava takes her time, hesitating before drawing Nat’s ankle into her lap. They both exhale at once, and she snaps her head up to find the deep brown of Nat’s eyes. Nat, looking down at her with a teasing coyness she doesn’t know what to do with. It takes nothing, nothing at all for Nat to leave her open-mouthed and off guard. 

Ava must look away first, stricken and unsure. Focus will help. She focuses on drawing the first silk stocking over the bow of Nat’s calf, making great pains to keep her fingers from brushing warm skin as much as possible.

“Will you dance with me tonight?” Nat asks suddenly, dragging Ava’s attention once back to her. She smiles down at her all too sweetly for the weight of her eyes.

Heady. That is the word for it. Heady, and flickering with emotion Ava has no name for, can only feel it as it stirs under her skin. Almost discomfort, but not quite—she has never felt discomfort with Nat. No, this is something different. Stomach-turning, but she is not sick. She cannot be sick. 

“Dance with you?” Ava finally manages, proud of the hard line of her voice.

Nat tilts her head to the side, still smiling. “I’m sure there will be dancing tonight, and it has been so long since I’ve done anything of the sort. I would love to dance with you, if you’ll allow me.”

Ava pauses, her mind stumbling to a halt. They had danced, once, almost fifty years ago. Another party of a similar nature, but they had taken to a balcony, away from the guests. The music was slow, but clear enough for both of them, and away from the heat of human bodies. Nat, her hands pressed to Ava’s shoulders, letting her lead even then, never pushing for more than the next step Ava began.

It was— it was _nice_. But there’s an underlying question within Nat’s request, something Ava cannot put her finger on, and it slinks under her skin. And so she regresses into the safety of their roles, their parts to play. Protecting this human and his family from a threat that may not truly be there. 

“We are not going for leisure, Nat.” Ava chides gently, dropping her eyes once again. Whatever this— this thing is, stirring up between them, it hones in on her knees, her hands—which shake, only a little, for the first time in many decades.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.” 

Ava almost chokes. _Enjoy ourselves,_ she says, her voice deceptively soft, and Ava’s hands stumble, her fingertips brushing the length of her calf as she draws the silk stocking up. 

Nat tenses beneath the touch, as does Ava.

Nat relaxes. Ava does not. 

“There is no guarantee there will be dancing.” Ava finally retorts, her voice slightly rasped, lower than before. 

Nat chuckles, a lovely note. “I think it is safe to assume there will be at least some.” 

She ties the stocking up with the other ribbon. Finished. Only the shoes, blessedly right beside the bench, then— then perhaps Nat can finish the rest of the way, and she can go. Work this intensity down, this simmering under her skin. 

Ava reaches for the matching slippers, keeping her head down. “Maybe.” She finally relents, frowning deeply as heat takes her cheeks. Another small betrayal. “We will see how the night goes.” She mutters, offering the heeled shoes up. One, then the other.

She goes to stand then, but before she can, Nat— 

Takes her by the chin, a light, plying touch, forcing her to lift her eyes. To hold Nat’s own. A touch that she feels from her jaw down her neck, into her chest where her heart seems to stumble and ache. They say nothing, but Ava feels her mouth dry, realizes her hand has come to rest on Nat’s knee.

But she doesn’t move it. She should.

“Ava—” Nat murmurs—and Ava enjoys it more than she should dare, hearing her name on Nat’s tongue, the almost-sleepy lowering of her features. Languid is the word for it. 

Her eyelashes are so long, butterfly kissing the skin under her eye as she stares down at her, head tilted to the side, a smile as sweet as it is self-satisfied decorating her full lips. Ava opens her mouth to say something ( _say what?_ and her mind blanks) and Nat tightens her forefinger and thumb, ever so slightly, around her chin.

”You…”

_This must stop._

“Do you need any other assistance?” Ava rasps out, standing up, ripping her face from Nat’s tender, warm grasp. For one terrifying second, she regrets its loss, then pushes that regret aside.

Nat, hand still frozen mid-air, stares at the spot she once held. Then remembers herself, dropping her hand, a smoothness crossing her features then. For some reason, Ava’s chest aches again. Something is wrong with her. She needs to— _she needs to get out of here._

Nat pauses, looking at her with emotion Ava dares not put a name to. Then, slowly, she shakes her head.

“No, thank you. I can manage the rest.” 

Disappointment and relief war in her and it is terrible.

“Very well.” Ava gruffs, then turns on her heel and strides out. Her knees are not weak, she does not stumble, she does not flinch. 

She does pull the door closed a little too hard, and regrets the finality of that slam.

This is— _new_. She is not a stranger to Nat. To the small, inconvenient emotions Nat occasionally stirs up in her. They are easily pushed aside, managed with the same efficiency Ava manages guilt and anger and loss. Managed, because they are not important in the grand scheme of things, in the grand scheme of Natalie, who she cannot—

She _cannot_ feel things for. She _does not_ feel things for, beyond the tender affections of a friend. The closest of friends. After decades together, it is not— it is not abnormal to feel warm, soft affection for a person. And regardless, they have never… Nat has never shown…

Whatever _that_ was. Even now, the feeling of Nat’s fingers around her chin burns on Ava’s skin.

It is too much. She will go. She will go alone, to this party. She will leave, right now, and—

No. She won’t do anything of the sort. That is ridiculous, and childish, and she is not going to run away from nonexistent emotion like a coward. She will stand in this obnoxiously opulent drawing room and she will pace productively. 

In the time that Nat finishes getting ready (and by god, Ava can _hear_ the softest rustle of clothing in the other room, the quiet sounds of Nat getting dressed, and it feels rather— invasive, all of a sudden) Ava works her boots on, tugs her heavy, long coat over her shoulders, and fidgets with her cane as she paces across the room.

Finally, the door opens, and Ava goes taut as a pulled rope, waiting for _something,_ she couldn’t say what.

But _Nat._

Nat is beautiful. As always. 

The dress suits her well, all heavy green and loveliness, but it isn’t the dress. No, it is how she carries herself. She carries herself like a woman better suited for poetry, for song, the muse of an artist who will never be talented _enough,_ and she is—

“Shall we?” Nat interrupts, shattering the momentary daze Ava found herself in.

Ava is about to turn when a soft hand catches the bend of her wrist. 

“Wait.”

“Yes?” Ava breathes, still as marble, as anything, waiting for— for what? Open-mouthed, wide-eyed, she can feel a flush take her cheeks, and she must look quite the fool indeed.

But Nat simply raises her other hand, holding her top hat lightly.

“You forgot this.” She laughs, placing it atop Ava’s head, setting it correctly. It is a slow gesture, one taken with care.

Her fingertips slant against Ava’s cheek as she slowly lowers her hand, trailing a path of embers. She doesn’t drop her gaze, she doesn’t shy away from her, and Ava—

“You look lovely, Ava.” Nat murmurs, setting her palm on Ava’s hand, squeezing lightly. 

Ava is about to take Nat’s hand in her own, when she drops it, pulling away. Somehow, she mourns the quiet loss.

She straightens up, clearing her throat. “Yes. We should— we should go.” She roughs, chastising herself silently for the stumbling of her voice, her words. “We will be late.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, of course.” Nat smiles, gently. “I would hate to miss the dancing.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @dumortainava on tumblr to talk about the emotional support vampires.


End file.
